I’m not one for pointy toes

Kay’s complaining I don’t take her out anywhere. There’s a reason for it. I’m retired. She wants to see ‘Billy Elliot, The Musical’ in London. I can’t afford £164 for a pair of tickets. Apparently, Billy Elliot is a ‘motherless boy whose father want him to take up boxing. Instead the boy discovers a love for ballet that leads him from secret lessons to a place at the Royal Ballet School.’ It’s not my cup of tea, watching a boy prance around a stage for three hours. All those crowds and I’ve got a bad back. Then there’s the price of hotel accommodation.

I said I’d take her out for a meal instead. The village pub is as good a place as any. We can have a chat and there’s room to stretch my legs if I’m stiff.

There’s another reason I want to stay close to home. Community-minded villagers had a whip-round for a heart defibrillator which hangs by the front door. It gives me a sense of security, knowing I could go at any time. Kay says it not doing the chef any favours; potential customers might think the food triggers cardiac arrest and dine elsewhere.

How times have changed. At one time I’d be merry, stumbling out of there on a Sunday afternoon without a care in the world. Now I count myself lucky if I can stumble in.